


Summer Omens

by Ashfae



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Swap, Choices, F/M, Fluff, Free Will, Gen, M/M, No beta I saunter vaguely downwards like Crowley, Other, Poetry, Random & Short, Summer, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, no planning just throwing these prompt fills here and hoping they splat into interesting patterns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25240522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashfae/pseuds/Ashfae
Summary: Lots of summer-themed Good Omens drabbles ranging from the absurd to the purple proseish. Written forasparkofgoodness'  Summer Omens prompts challenge, entirely unplanned, entirely unbeta'd, largely unedited.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 131
Kudos: 56





	1. Sand

**Author's Note:**

> My challenge to myself: write on the given prompts from **asparkofgoodness**. Write for at least ten minutes, preferably in the A03 window. No overediting, no overthinking, no plot required, no anything required, if it ends up being thirty days of my favorite characters smooching each other that's fine, if I put too much of myself into them that's also fine, nothing is true everything is permitted, *don't overthink just put words down*. Go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laughter on a sunny day at the beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for **mywingsareonwheels** , who knows why. <3

There was a beach in Scotland of which Aziraphale was inordinantly fond, called the Singing Sands. The name seemed whimsical but was in fact accurate: due to the shape and size of the sand grains, the silica content, and the precise levels of erosion and humidity, the sand 'sang' underfoot with every step. Not the usual scrunching or squelching, but almost musical sounds at a pleasing pitch.

Crowley preferred to call it the Squeaking Sands, but then he always did enjoy being literal. 

"Amazed anyone comes here at all, given that," he drawled, tilting his head back towards the "Warning: Unexploded Munitions" sign. He shook his head, bemused. "Humans. Always think it won't happen to them, always so surprised when it does."

"For what value of 'it', darling?" Aziraphale asked, still happily distracted by scrunching his toes in the sand. It was softer and smoother than most beaches as well, remarkably pleasant. 

"Any value of 'it', obviously." Crowley grinned. "Whatever 'it' is, they're always sure it won't happen, and then it does. Or they're sure it will happen, and then it doesn't. S'fantastic the way they confound themselves with their own expectations. Made my job _so_ easy."

Aziraphale's mouth quirked. "Indeed. Interesting that it happens that way with such regularity. It's almost--"

Crowley glared at him. It couldn't be clearly seen through his sunglasses, but it was obvious all the same. Six thousand years of association gives you a great deal of familiarity with a person's facial expressions, disruptive eyewear or no. "Don't you _dare_ say it, angel, I'm warning you."

"Say what, dearest?" Aziraphale's eyes were wide and guileless. "Ineffa--"

Crowley grabbed a handful of singing sand and dumped it onto white-gold curls, laughing despite himself.


	2. Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They're going to have boats on the Lake of Shining Waters--and ice cream, as I told you. I have never tasted ice cream. Diana tried to explain what it was like, but I guess ice cream is one of those things that are beyond imagination."

> "They're going to have boats on the Lake of Shining Waters--and ice cream, as I told you. I have never tasted ice cream. Diana tried to explain what it was like, but I guess ice cream is one of those things that are beyond imagination." --L.M. Montgomery, _Anne of Green Gables_

  


They get ice cream. It's something to do while they wait.

It's the layers of it all that are perplexing. Walk casually, saunter, hips loose and arms swinging. Make your outer appearance what it seems it should be, so no one looks further. Be what's expected. Which is the same game they've always played, really, and hopefully as unnecessary now as it's always been. Neither of them has ever been what they're expected to be, but no one ever looked closely enough to notice, except they themselves. 

Experience tells him to look unassuming and harmless and innocent, up to Good, complacent in his own Goodness, and that's exactly what he needs to not seem to be just now. They need to look cautious and wary--but they also need to look as though they're not cautious enough, not wary enough. They need to be outsmarted, but only at one key moment. They need to not look as though they're a step ahead.

Crowley steps around him, unmistakably himself to Aziraphale for all that he's wearing Aziraphale's form. He paces a protective half-circle around to the other side of the ice cream cart, accepts his vanilla flake with barely a downwards glance before he returns to examining the park around them. The people walking a smidgen more quickly to some shelter from the smatterings of raindrops. The brass band on the grass, the ducks on the water. 

On another day they would sit and appreciate all these things, these ephemeral pleasures, ice cream and ducks and music. On another day they might shelter each other from the rain.

Aziraphale stares at Crowley's expression on his own face, Crowley's intense gaze turned a stormy blue. He's wondered so many times over the millennia what Crowley sees with his snake eyes, from behind the acid yellow and demonic slits, and now for a time those eyes are his. Visually, everything looks the same. Appearances. 

But it's the layers that matter.

Aziraphale reaches out long, spindly fingers to accept a strawberry lolly, feels his tongue sitting forked in his mouth, out of sight. They look human, at first glance. They look like an angel and a demon at second glance, and then on the third layer they are a demon and an angel instead.

He watches Crowley watch, and wonders: _How far down do you go? How many layers have you? Six thousand years, and I'm sure I haven't seen them all yet. But I want to. Oh, I want to._

Ice cream is ephemeral, but they are not. Not if this goes as they hope. As they've planned.

_I held a wing above you, that first day. It seemed the right thing to do. Do you still think I can't do the wrong thing?_

(He can. They both can. They both have, too many times to count. Are those mistakes as ephemeral as ice cream or as eternal as rain? Are they?)

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and forces calm upon himself, closes his eyes (his snake eyes, golden and beautiful, and he's never yet told Crowley how beautiful those eyes are to him, but he will, he _will_ ). A line from a poem comes to his mind unbidden: _Let be be finale of seem._

Yes. For the first time in all his history, he is the ruler of his own fate. He's not guided by Heaven's orders or God's silence, but only his own wishes. When Aziraphale opens his eyes again--those beautiful, beautiful eyes, hidden behind dark lenses as he himself is hidden, as all the layers of Crowley's soul are hidden--he will look upon all the ephemeral things and the hidden things and the eternal things. 

And when he has his own eyes once more (when, not if, _when_ ), when they are free to forget appearances and explore all the layers of themselves, they will celebrate. As humans do, perhaps. With ice cream.

Aziraphale already knows he will have never tasted anything so delicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Let be be finale of seem" is from Wallace Stevens' poem "The Emperor of Ice Cream," which has to be the most apparently (but not actually) random and multilayered poem about life and death and the transcience/acceptance/celebration thereof that I've ever read. I really wanted this thing to be about Anne's ideas about ice cream, but nope, Wallace just swanned in and took over.


	3. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to step away from who you've always been.

"You're sure you want this?"

A smile, or at least an attempt of one. "Do you know, you're the only one who's ever asked me that? What I want."

"How's that possible?"

"It wasn't ever relevant before. What I wanted didn't enter into it."

"You never wondered yourself? What you wanted."

"No." It's said low. "No, I didn't. It didn't occur to me to ask, either." A laugh, but there's little humour in it. "What would it have changed? There were no choices, do you see? Not real ones, not for things that mattered. Those were already decided for me, all I had to do was understand them. It's not the same thing."

"I think I see." One hand covers another, long fingers cautiously stroking shorter ones. "But now?"

There's never been a point of no return before, only the long path determined long ago. There's never been a crossroads. There's never been choice.

A deep breath. "Yes. I think this is what I want."

(All choices begin with the decision to choose. The apple was never knowledge and neither was the price: that was awareness of ignorance, and awareness of responsibility. Freedom, too. Freedom, with the terrible vista of endless choices lined up into the future, crossroads upon crossroads)

Anathema takes another deep breath and throws the book on the fire, pokes at it with a stick and watches it burn. Every instinct she has screams to grab it, analyze it, take all those laws and rules, all that _guidance_ , and give in to it, to let her life be as proscribed as it's always been. It was comforting to always be able to see something of the road ahead. It was comforting to know for certain someone had their hands on the reins, even when she chafed at the bit, even if it was an ancient relative who saw more than was good for anyone including herself. It was so comforting.

Newt's hand is gentle on hers, and says nothing, only offers support. Later that day he'll turn to her and raise their joined hands between them, and ask again, _You're sure you're want this?_ And this time he'll mean himself: all that messy uncertainty, his awkward hair and awkward words and awkward everything and he'll ask, _Are you really sure you want this_ , knowing that until this point she woudn't have asked herself that question either.

And she'll smile at him, this person who gives her a choice and helps her question it even though it might backfire like any circuits he tries to connect, this person with stubborn optimism that keeps him trying to be what he wants to be despite everything in his way, with the patience and endurance that lets him keep going every time things explode around him. This person who knows how to move forward even when his choices fail. He wants to keep her, he wants to love her, and he could, he _could_. It's already been foreordained, all he'd have to do is go along with it. 

But instead he gives her a little space and asks, _Are you really sure you want this?_

Anathema will squeeze his fingers. _Yes. Yes, I think this is what I want._ And when that astonished smile grows on his face she'll laugh and kiss him while future goes up in flames and leaves a wide empty space of pages before them, waiting to be written. Not read or puzzled over or understood or foretold, but _written_. Not in words of fire but in pencil, a future that can be planned and rearranged and rubbed out and made to fit them both, as they want. As they choose. _Let's give it a try and find out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt gets way too little credit.


	4. Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the angels sing about Jesus' mighty sword  
> And they'll shield you with their wings  
> And keep you close to the Lord  
> Don't pay heed to temptation  
> For his hands are so cold  
> You gotta help me keep the devil  
> Way down in the hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: alcohol and general widespread aggression

The trail isn't hard to follow. Even in a city as chaotic as London and an area as chaotic Soho within it, the signs are clear. It might even seem ordinary at first, or not all that extraordinary: more rubbish on the streets than usual, bins that have been upturned, bicycles that have been stripped of everything but the frame. And then it might seem a little more worrying than usual. Streetlights off. A car that swerved in the road and crashed into a fire hydrant, and the driver unhurt but swearing like a sailor at the idiot in the road who he managed to avoid, who swears right back.

That's when the path becomes more obvious, to those who know how to look. The arguments. The anger. The people who instead of going about their business go out of their way to get into each other's business, in the most irritating ways possible. It hasn't even been done on purpose, most likely; it could have been, but that's never been how this particular demon prefers to work.

The effect is there, however. He might as well have left a trail in red paint: _I went this way, and I was royally fucked off as I went._

It only gets worse as the streets progress, where voices raised are joined by fists banging against doors or walls, by every driver in the area leaning on their automobile horns, by every animal yowling and hissing. Insults thrown and pockets picked and all the petty injustices on display as though they've been painted there, a three dimensional work of art demonstrating humanity's less pleasant attributes. Not quite the worst, but nothing good.

Nothing good, save the one being who walks silently through it all, unnoticed and fretful and determined.

He leaves some peace in his wake, some respite. Animals quiet and voices lower again and the strangers who've slammed into each other on the pavement sneer at each other but turn and walk away, and if things aren't back to normal they're at least calmed. It's the least he can do to smooth things over, the very least.

Other things will be more difficult to calm, he knows.

The miasma of demonic energy leads eventually down a stairway with a rusty bannister, to an underground bar. It's clear even before he enters that the worst of it all has been here. It's packed and loud, raucous laughter with no touch of joy in it. There are people dancing but with no delight, only lasvicious eyes and hands that seek to take without care for giving. Glass breaks against the wall by the door just as he enters--someone's thrown a bottle against the wall, apparently just to see it smash--and the music is so loud, so loud and despairing and with a plaintive wail to it that makes a mockery of the entire scene. The very air reeks of discord and hostility. The song ends, and then repeats. There's no telling how long this same track has been playing. 

Walking into the bar is like walking into a cesspool. Aziraphale does it anyway.

He's set up camp at a corner table, with his back to the wall. The table in front of him is littered with empty bottles, as is the floor by his feet. There are a few glasses, some turned over, one broken, but from the looks of things glasses were abandoned a while ago in favor of drinking directly from the container. There's a bottle of gin clenched in his hand. Sunglasses guard his face and his mouth is twisted in a grotesque imitation of a smile.

He doesn't look up.

"Go away, angel."

The song starts again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I don't know why he's so angry either. Or rather I know why but not what exact chain of events caused it. Hmm.
> 
> The song is "Way Down in the Hole" by Tom Waits. It seemed the sort of thing Crowley would listen to in the wrong sort of mood, while wallowing in his own demonic state for whatever reason. 
> 
> I wrote something like this but different with a friend a while ago and it just came back to me now for some reason, mostly the image of Crowley stewing in resentment after having been drinking for hours while listening to this song on repeat.


	5. Grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is an expert at teasing his demon. Unrepentant fluff.

They sit together on a hilltop under a tree. The leaves dapple their faces with shadows, but there's more than enough sun to tease redgold sparks from Crowley's hair where it rests on his lap. Aziraphale plays with it idly, twisting the short strands, combing his fingers through. 

Crowley sighs, shifts a little. His eyes are closed and his features quiet, his restless energy calmed by the moment. Aziraphale smiles with almost painful fondness, his eyes tracing the lines of his beloved's face.

"Stop that."

"Hmm?" 

Crowley opens his eyes and looks up at him. The unimpressed glower would probably be more effective if it weren't upside down. "I can feel you thinking nice things about me. Stop it.'

"I was doing no such thing." 

The denial is amused and unconvincing, and Crowley snorts disbelief, closing his eyes again. "Liar."

"I was thinking about poetry, if you must know."

Crowley scoffs. "Even worse." 

They rest there in silence. A breeze rustles the leaves overhead.

Crowley shifts again. "All right, let's have it."

"Hmm?"

"The poetry." His eyebrow raises, though the lids remain closed. "Know you want to. Go on then."

Aziraphale chuckles, his fingers drifting to caress along forehead, temple, jawline, and back. Unselfconsciously he recites: "'Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat. Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.'"

Crowley, who groaned recognition at the beginning, snorts again. "Reciting verse about how you don't want to hear verse is a bit ridiculous, angel."

"You did ask, dearest," Aziraphale says mildly. His fingers drift down to Crowley's throat, trace along his collar. "'I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, how you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over upon me, and parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart--'"

" _Ngggk_ \--" Crowley flips himself over, haphazardly wrapping his arms around Aziraphale's waist, his face now hidden against Aziraphale's thigh. "Bastard." 

The angel chuckles at this muffled insult and runs his fingers across the back of the now-reddened neck. "Just enough of one," he agrees, serene. 

"You could've at least picked someone less long-winded. Tell me you don't have the entire bloody thing memorized."

"Only parts of it." Aziraphale draws patterns on his back, spirals and curves. "The lines that made me think of you."

The demon goes still for a long moment, his arms tightening their hold. Aziraphale waits.

Crowley loosens his grip but is still tense, coiled. "I prefer what he said later on about having dared to publish something so controversial."

"Oh?" The palm of a hand sweeps back up and rests on the back of Crowley's neck. "Why, what did he say?"

Crowley curls into himself and pushes upwards until he's on his hands and knees. His hair is askew and his eyes burning, his voice low as he answers, quoting in his turn. "'I expected hell.'" He leans in, and just before his mouth seizes Aziraphale's he finishes, "'I got it.'"

Aziraphale's hands bury themselves again in redgold hair dappled by leaf shadows, as he accepts what he's given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poet is Walt Whitman, the excerpts from Leaves of Grass.


	6. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of women and lions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: pregnancy

She sat with a hand resting on the swell of her belly, looking out into the dark. _Night_ , Adam had named the darkness, while sitting next to her under a tree as they looked up at the stars. He'd named those as well, before she came into being. Trees and stars and bellies.

And lions.

It was there, she was sure, looking back at her from the desert. No, not it, she. Lioness, mate to the poor dead thing whose body they had made useful. They had lived together in the garden once, all of them. But now they were exiled. The man and woman, the lion and lioness, all four together.

Three, now.

Her fingers pressed into her skin. Soon to be four again. She didn't know when, though the song of her blood and the quickening in her belly said _soon, soon_.

Eve looked into the dark, unrepentant. All this was hers: this night, these consequences, these choices. She was afraid sometimes, particularly when she thought of the new life she carried, the questions it might ask someday to which she still had no answers. She had thought the fruit of knowledge would bring answers, and so it had. No one had told her that answers always only begat more questions. She was afraid.

But not sorry.

There was a faint glimmer in the dark: the light of their flaming sword, burning behind her, offering warmth and protection and a warning, reflected briefly in eyes that were like two predatory stars come to earth. Only a flash, then they were gone, or seemed gone.

Eve watched for the lioness in the dark and knew herself watched. Her fingers caressed the unborn child in her belly. And she wondered if they were kin in this also, if the lioness carried new life inside her, the last remnant of her slain mate. Perhaps they would give birth together, herself and the lioness. Perhaps they would share the pain foretold, the blood and agony, and come through to the other side. Perhaps there would be a morning sometime soon when she looked into the desert and held a babe in her arms, and perhaps she would see a lioness looking back at her with cubs by her side.

They would never again share the innocence they'd once had. But she thought they might understand each other, all the same.


	7. Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of flowers and their meaning and symbolism.

He sucks a kiss hard, hard into his lover's skin, then pulls back to watch the color bloom. This one is a flare of red set in a garden of lighter marks, blushes of pink overlaying a backdrop of pale, freckled skin. Crowley's breath, which was hissed in and held, releases in a gasp; Aziraphale places a lighter kiss where only a moment ago he left a bruise, not in apology but as a signature. _I made this, and thought it good._

Giving flowers is traditional for couples: something to enjoy, something to see and touch once the moment is over, so that when two lovers have parted again there's a physical thing to observe. _See, this happened, they were here. I did not imagine it. It was real. This is a symbol, my beloved's desire made manifest._ They do give each other flowers, now. Cut ones with hidden symbolism: jonquil, ambrosia, variegated tulips, camellias of every color. Nasturtiums, for victory. Are they not victorious? And more, Crowley's garden which symbolizes other things altogether, far beyond the Victorian languages. An Eden of their own.

But these blooms are Aziraphale's favorite, the ones that he creates and places like benedictions, these kiss-flowers that make Crowley gasp and writhe and plead for more. _See, this is happening, we are here. We have not imagined it, it is real. You are my beloved and I will show you all my desires and answer all of yours. Neither of us will be left wanting, and later, later we will have these blossoms aching on our skin to remind us, if we need reminding..._

Aziraphale lowers himself down again and tends his garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jonquil is a desire for affection returned, a request to be loved.  
> Ambrosia means love is reciprocated.  
> Variegated tulips are for beautiful eyes.  
> Pink camellias for longing, red for a flame in the heart, white for adorability, and in general for admiration.  
> Nasturtiums are for victory.


	8. Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day is drawing to an end, and the summer with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not done with these, I hope. Still unplanned and unedited and unbetaed, still me fighting a world that's too big with words.

The day is drawing to an end, and the summer with it. There's no kiss of cold to the air yet, but the earlier sunset foreshadows it, hints at shorter days and autumn leaves and a world beginning its slow descent into winter. Aziraphale can't decide if the idea is comforting or frustrating. On the one hand a bit of a rest sounds lovely after the past days--the past years, really--but on the other hand so many things are just beginning. Everything feels new. Does he want to slow down or speed up?

Crowley waves his hand to emphasize a point; what point it is Aziraphale lost track of some time ago, but it hardly matters. The light from the setting sun is a deep gold that draws all the color from the demon's hair, so it shines like firelight. Not Hellfire, no; it's the sort of fire that burns against the dark. A torch to light the way, a bonfire of companionship. Aziraphale can admit to himself now, for the first time, that Crowley's light is the one that's guided him through the past centuries, far more than any light of Heaven. It's such a relief to know it, even if the words aren't spoken aloud. 

(It's an astonishment to know he could speak the words now, could say anything, _anything_. An astonishment, and a bit frightening, but also a thrill. A frisson of excitement that he'll keep clutched close in amazement for a little while first, admiring the gleaming sparks of possibility in silence for a time before sharing them)

Crowley is relaxed and open, his body loose as he sprawls in his chair, head tilted back as he drinks deep from a wineglass. The darkening sunlight gleams on the glass, on the long length of his throat. The white wine is pale gold. Alchemists would weep to see how the sun makes a mockery of all their attempts to turn everyday things to this shimmering glory.

Aziraphale smiles, happy and dazed and basking in all the light. Beings their age should know everything there is to know about endings, about beginnings. What a miracle it is, he thinks, that there's still more they have to learn.

"Something on your mind, angel?"

Crowley's eyes the most beautiful gold of all, dark and molten and exciting above dark lenses, the arch of his eyebrow raised as he looks at Aziraphale. The angel shakes his head, his gaze fond.

"Nothing, my dear. Just thinking about sunlight."


	9. Freckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, Crowley truly needed his sunglasses. He was pretty sure the sun never actually shone this bright back in England. There was probably a law against it.

For once, Crowley truly needed his sunglasses. He was pretty sure the sun never actually shone this bright back in England. There was probably a law against it. Even Aziraphale was wearing sunglasses for once. They were dreadful, of course, the sort of thing old biddies would wear to go paddling, huge and round and that one particular hideous shade of brown that Crowley couldn't stand. When Crowley had questioned them Aziraphale had only smiled that sunshine-bright smile of his (also probably outlawed in England for being too high-wattage) and reminded him that they were on a beach holiday and doing things the human way, and that meant doing it all properly, including sunglasses. (They did look adorable, not that Crowley would admit it for even a second.)

"The human way" involved quite a lot of things Crowley himself would never have bothered with on his own, including but not limited to 1) a bucket and spade, 2) terrible fisherman-style hats, 3) an umbrella (he was coming around to that one--basking in the sun was one of his favorite activities, but the sand was baking even by his standards), 4) tacky towels with hideous neon colored designs (Crowley was pretty sure he'd tried to take credit for neon, but even he had limits), 5) a _tote bag_ , and 6) sun cream.

The sun cream he was openly enjoying, mostly because he was getting to slather it on Aziraphale.

"Don't miss any spots," Aziraphale reminded him for at least the third time. "Sunburn is such a nuisance."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Stop _fussing_." He slathered a generous amount onto the angel's back, then began rubbing it in properly. "I'll be thorough, promise. Your skin will be entirely blocked and protected from the evil sunlight."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes as well. It didn't matter that he was facing the ocean and his eyes couldn't be seen, Crowley was sure he'd done it. "There's no need for such dramatics."

"You like them." Crowley grinned and leaned in to nip lightly at Aziraphale's neck with too-pointed teeth, then immediately covered the spot with suncream even as it reddened. His thumbs rubbed around and between bones and tendons, shoulders and forearms. 

Aziraphale sighed and wiggled happily. "I suppose I do," he admitted, looking back over his shoulder through those hideous, hideous (adorable) sunglasses. "I should return the favour, afterwards. Serpent or not, you have twice as many freckles as you did when we arrived, and we've only been here a few days."

"Mm, but that's your fault."

Aziraphale huffed. "You know _perfectly well_ there's no truth at all to that 'angel kisses' bit of folklore--"

"Yup." Crowley smirked. "Because if there were, I'd have no unfreckled skin left by now." He leaned in again, licked delicately at Aziraphale's earlobe. "'I'm not the only one of us who's _thorough._ "

Aziraphale actually blushed, though he looked pleased at this reminder of another 'traditional human activity' they'd been engaging in during this trip, extensively and with great enthusiasm. "Oh, do hush, dearest," he murmured, smiling. 

"Never."


	10. Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some musings on dancing metaphors and festival terms.

It wasn't that Crowley was impatient. On the contrary, he could be _extremely_ patient. Had to be, in his line of work. Former line of work. Sort of former line of work. Because he was still a demon, no getting around that, and he still wanted to do demon-y things even if he did lean more towards the obnoxious trickster style rather than the kill you all and laugh at the corpses style. 

Hastur. What an asshole. Best thing about being retired was not having to deal with bloody Hastur anymore.

Well. One of the best things.

The point was, Crowley wasn't impatient, no. He'd be perfectly willing to hang around indefinitely doing his own thing while waiting for his goals to mature. 90% of temptation was timing. Even Eve might've taken more persuading if he hadn't chosen his moment just right. (Well, probably. There'd been a lot of good moments there. Adam might've had more imagination and near-infinite things to name, but Eve had found very quickly that waiting around while he was busy got boring as all Heaven. There were only so many trees you could climb before you got tired of only seeing the same view every time).

...the _point_ was, Crowley was plenty patient when he knew what he was doing. The problem was he had no sodding idea what he was doing now. They'd had the dance perfected for years now, for centuries. Wile and thwart, tempt and resist, forward and back. Opposite and opposed and always moving together in tandem, like any dancers. And it'd worked for them. Sure there'd been the odd misstep, when he'd pushed too far or Aziraphale had been just that smidge too sanctimonious or they'd gotten a little too argumentative about the merits of _Into the Woods_ vs _Sweeney Todd_. It was still a good dance. But now someone had changed the tune or gotten them a new venue or in some other way thoroughly over extended the metaphor and the point was, the _point_ was that now they were going through the motions without actually dancing, much less learning new steps, and Crowley kept tripping over his own feet.

It was possible that he should have been more sober while trying to figure this out, but drinking with Aziraphale was still one of the things that usually went to plan and they did a lot of it. They did a lot of other things too, meals and shows and walks in the park and museums and whatever the Heaven they wanted, and it was great, it was bloody marvelous really, but then Crowley would get a little too in his head (or drunk) and wonder where all these steps were _leading_ or if they were even leading anywhere and then there was nothing for it but to open another bottle and try to remember what point he'd been trying to make.

He frowned down into his glass. He almost had it. He was sure he almost had it. 

"You've gone very quiet, my dear. Is something wrong?"

"Hmm?" Crowley didn't look up.

Aziraphale leaned forward. "I asked, is something wrong?"

"Festival!" Crowley shouted, slamming his glass down on the table. (It didn't break, because it was polite like that)

Aziraphale looked startled. "I beg your pardon."

Crowley pointed at him. "S'what I was trying to remember. 'I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.'" He blinked and frowned again, and so missed how Aziraphale's expression suddenly softened into something openly fond. "Izzat a double negative? Whatever. The point was, festival terms."

"You always did prefer the funny ones," Aziraphale murmured to himself. "What about festival terms was it you were trying to remember?"

Crowley snorted. "What they bloody well _are_. Like, are you supposed to woo with, with talking about tents and lights and, I dunno, bloody mulled cider or something? Can't mean that."

"No, it doesn't, and also I believe you're thinking not of festivals but of German Christmas Markets."

"Am I?" Crowley considered the end of his nose, which he could almost see if he crossed his eyes just the right way. "...yeah, might be. Damn."

He flopped back in his chair, musing. Aziraphale placed his glass on the table between them (rather more decorously, though it didn't break either, out of solidarity with its fellow). "Festivals are at their heart celebrations, often though not always religious. In Benedict's context, which I believe you're attempting to penetrate--" Crowley giggled a little at the word 'penetrate', and repeated it under his breath while reaching for his glass again. (It had refilled itself during the break. As previously mentioned, it was a very polite glass of wine). "--he means simply...well. Fancy language. Extravagant and meant to impress, for the art of courting and singing praise."

Crowley stayed quiet this time. 'Singing praise' could be a euphemism too, if not as funny, but it had other meanings that were distinctly less appealing. Aziraphale had stood up and moved over to the chair. "So for example," he continued, waving his hands a little nervously in the air. "I could say...well. I could quote you poetry, I daresay I'd make a hash of writing it if I tried, but I could quote it at you. Something by Will, as you've just done for me. But delivered more...earnestly." 

Crowley blinked, looking up owlishly (assuming that was possibly with snake eyes, which it likely wasn't). Something had gotten confused somewhere. Why was Aziraphale standing over him and smiling like that? Wait, now he was kneeling down. That was much more weird. "Or instead," the angel continued. "I could simply take your hand--like so--and kiss it, and ask if I might...ah, change my choice of endearments for you." 

Crowley stared. Aziraphale smiled and lifted the loose fingers in his grip to his mouth, kissing them gently. "Which is to say, we could attempt to woo each other by writing or reciting poetry in the most outrageous purple prose, and that would count as festival terms. But it's hardly obligatory. We could instead just...just continue as we are. But a bit differently. With me calling you 'dearest,' instead of merely 'my dear,' for example. Is that what you were wondering, my dearest?"

He was too busy staring at their fingers to answer. They were ever so slightly slicked from having touched Aziraphale's mouth, and that distracted Crowley for several seconds. "Yeah..." He swallowed. "Yeah, uh. That. That was the point." 

"Well." Aziraphale looked pleased by whatever it was he was looking at, which would be...Crowley's face. Okay. "For the record, I would be entirely amenable to that and have no need of festival terms, as you've so delightfully remembered to call such gestures."

"Oh." Crowley was still having a remarkably difficult time remembering how words worked. Which, right, that had been the problem, along with the overextended dancing metaphors. But it seemed as though Aziraphale was giving him permission to skip the part about knowing how words worked. That was...helpful.

Aziraphale looked, in fact, more than a little expectant, and finally tugged on Crowley's hand to pull him closer. Fortunately while Crowley might have been uncertain when it came to rhyming planets and festival terms, he still knew a cue when he saw one.

Their first kiss was perfectly timed and didn't rhyme with anything, which suited them both just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone familiar with the original prompts might notice I skipped "Sweat." That's because it, uh, took on a life of its own. In a "Welp this is too long to count as a drabble anymore and it's not even done yet" way, not a "Eww bodily functions gaining sentience" way. Though the latter would be a good one for a Halloween prompt, I suppose...(or then again, no).
> 
> I should switch over to autumn prompts instead/also, but I'm stubborn sometimes.
> 
> This one was supposed to be short too! But it got long and I don't want to edit it properly so I'm lobbing it in here anyway. Gaah! Why can't I be this verbose with my actual WiP fics? Phooey.


End file.
